One Night
by Fawn Hickory
Summary: Murphy brings an aching and wounded Harry home with her and patches him up after something knocked him around again! , and things get a little interesting. I kind of make someone do something she normally might not do. Be forwarned.


**I am branching out! I fell in love with the Dresden files one chapter into the first book of that series that I read and of course if I love it I write for it. This is a one-shot. Just for fun. Please read and review!**

*******

I opened my eyes and saw Murphy's house silhouetted against the early dawn sky. I glanced over at her in the drivers' seat and she smiled in the dimness.

"You're staying here tonight."

"Mouse? Mister?"

"Taken care of."

I sat there for a moment, while all my various injuries and aches and pains demonstrated their unique abilities and a drunken exhaustion pressed against my eyelids. "Okay."

I hauled myself out of the car and followed her up the porch steps with Mouse behind us. I did my best not to sway on the spot while she unlocked the door, then I allowed her to steer me into her bedroom.

I looked at her with raised eyebrows.

"Bathrooms closest."

Made perfect sense to me.

Mouse threw himself down in the corner in the boneless way a big dog does when it's exhausted, and I folded myself into a seating position on the bed and slowly slumped backwards, my eyes closing as I went.

"Not so fast," Murphy said, grabbing my hand and hauling me back upright.

"Sleep."

"Wounds. Dirty."

Oh.

She was still holding my hand, and somewhere along the way tonight the leather glove I covered the scarred and burned appendage with had disappeared, so she was flesh on flesh.

If it had been me, I would have let go immediately, or grabbed my right hand, but Murphy just held on, her thumb caressing the back of my hand and her index finger stroking the heel and along my wrist.

There isn't much feeling left in my left hand, especially for light touches like that but I could feel her warmth, and one place along my wrist that she was touching sent pleasant tingles up my arm.

She finally let go and headed towards the bathroom, an in a moment she was back with a tool-box sized first-aid kit and a pile of towel and washcloths. She left again and came back with a basin of steaming water. A sweep of her arm cleared space on the bedside table and she sat the basin there, dragged a chair over between my knees and sat.

I was dimly aware of how intimate this position could be, if we wanted to, and then she started unbuttoning my shirt. She stripped me out of it, dunked a washcloth into the water and began to wash my face.

I closed my eyes and sighed. The cloth was warm and rough and it smelled like strawberries. Warm water did not often touch my skin, since I'd long since decided that having a water heater in my apartment was more trouble than it was worth, what with technology's reaction to magic. My cold showers were invigorating but ranked very low in the comfort department.

Murphy washed away blood, sweat and a few tears that the past twelve hours had wrung from me, and I was nearly asleep sitting up when soap stung a cut on my face. I flinched but she followed, making sure that wound was thoroughly clean. Then she reached into the first-aid kit and came up with a small bottle of a gel-like substance. She dabbed a bit on the cut and I hissed; it stung like whiskey in the open wound.

"Hush," she chided gently, and then the pain began to dim, till in a few seconds it was gone.

She washed her way down my neck to my chest, while I closed my eyes and just sort of drifted on the sensations she was providing, till she came to a cut along my ribs. She cleaned carefully around it, then, very gently, she washed out the wound while little black dots danced in front of my eyes and I did my best not to make a sound.

It's a guy thing.

She opened the little bottle of gel again and applied a liberal dose and I couldn't contain the whimper. While she was dressing the wound the pain began to subside and by the time she'd smoothed the last piece of tape in place it was gone.

"I love you," I told her.

She smiled. "I know. I love you too."

She went to work on the rest of my torso with the washcloth, and own my arms to my hands. SHe held my left again, washing it gently.

"You can't hurt me, not much feeling left in it," I said. She carressed the little spot in my wrist again and I shivered.

"What?" she asked.

"Tickles."

She grinned evilly.

She stood up to reach my back and I sighed as the heat seeped into aching muscles. She dipped the cloth again and moved it slowly across my back.

I heard her put the cloth back into the water, and then I felt fingers dig into the muscles covering my shoulder blades.

My nest breath came out a moan. Murphy was a little woman but she was strong. Each firm knead released a bit more tension and with it a little more pain.

She kept it up until the tension was gone, replaced my pliant muscles and then I sank onto my back.

She was kneeling on the bed and she smile at me. I blinked drowsily up at her. "Thanks."

"No problem."

She was still kneeling there and she was staring at me. "What?" I asked.

"I was just thinking how good a man you are, Harry." She paused and looked thoughtful. "And I'm also thinking that I like you flat on your back in my bed."

That woke me up. "Murphy—"

"I know. You don't do casual sex. And I don't do—" She trailed off and shrugged. I knew what she meant. "That's part of your appeal."

She got off the bed and persuaded me to get to my feet, than she got me out of my jeans and sneakers and under the covers. I sank down in the queen-sized bed and sighed contentedly. "I really do love you," she said.

"I know. I love you too."

And I fell asleep.

*

The next thing I knew was the feeling of someone crawling in bed with me. I opened my eyes and saw Murphy sitting under the covers, wearing a pink button-down pajama top.

She saw me looking at her and gave me a look. "It's my bed."

Good enough for me. I closed my eyes.


End file.
